


Oh, my last, sweet dream, are you finally asleep?

by hideyourfires



Series: Old Time Romance [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, i guess?, like? the mildest whump, she's just real sleepy, soft soft soft, sole has somniphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: Three nights and one morning between the girl out of time and her synth detective.“You fancy a drink, Nicky?”He cocks his head to the side, gives her a look. “You forgetting something, toots?”She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean, Valentine. Celebrate. Make a night of it.”(He briefly imagines sayingalright, partner, you’re on. Imagines sitting across a table from her, clinking their bottles together, trading barbs and anecdotes until the early hours of the morning. Her leg resting familiarly against his under the table. Walking her home at sunrise.There will be other nights, he figures.)“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your sudden aversion to getting some shut-eye, now, would it?”
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor/Nick Valentine, Sole Survivor/Nick Valentine
Series: Old Time Romance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753309
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Oh, my last, sweet dream, are you finally asleep?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a line of poetry by Sophia Parnok,
> 
> "...Ты спишь,  
> Последний мой, сладостный сон?"

**I.**

They’re somewhere between Diamond City and Goodneighbour, the sky slowly sinking from turquoise into a deep ocean blue, when Nick first notices. He can understand burning the midnight oil – knows the drive, the urge, the _itch_ of a new case – but the case in question is that of a missing possession, rather than a missing person, and his partner is looking dead on her feet.

It wouldn’t be so bad if they were at least in a safe area, but no – the last few bullets of the previous fire fight had sizzled the air in uncomfortably close range of her head.

“Hey, starlet,” he calls, after the dust and shrapnel has settled. “You doing alright, there? You look just about ready to drop.”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. We can keep going.”

Even as she says it, her eyelids look heavy.

“You seem to be forgetting only one half of this dynamic duo doesn’t need sleep.” He says, taking her by the shoulders, and gently cajoles her in the other direction.

“Come on. Back to Diamond City.” Then, because her shoulders are stiff, her footsteps faltering, he adds, “I’ve got enough metal in me as is.” (It’s easier to persuade her, he has learnt, if she thinks its for his sake.)

At that, she relents, and allows him to lead her back home.

**II.**

The second time, they’re in his office. They’re in his office, and it’s late, and she is picking up her revolver and standing as though she is ready to go. He manages to catch her – _hey, whoa there, easy tiger_ – and ushers her back into her seat.

“Half of good detective work is done behind a desk,” he tells her, gently pressing her back into her seat by the shoulders. (It’s not untrue, he figures. Besides, they will get a lot more done if both of them live to tell the tale.)

That’s how she ends up slumped at his desk, head rested on her arms, fast asleep. (It had been his intention, of course, but not his preference. There is a muscle memory, deeply ingrained in his memory cortex, of stretching out his spine and rolling his shoulders after long hours in the office, back aching and uncomfortable. Still – it’s better than the alternative. Some sleep is better than none.)

He lays his coat over her, switches off the light, and quietly slips out onto the roof for a smoke.

**III.**

The third time, they have just wrapped up a case. It’s past midnight, and they’re standing outside the Dugout Inn, and she turns to him and says, “You fancy a drink, Nicky?”

There’s that same thing in her features – though she is smiling, her ever-coquettish self, there is a strain there. A desperateness. Her lips flirt, tease, but her eyes are pleading.

He cocks his head to the side, gives her a look. “You forgetting something, toots?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean, Valentine.” (She rarely calls him that anymore – it’s a name she reserves for playful chiding.) “Celebrate. Make a night of it.”

(He briefly imagines saying _alright, partner, you’re on_. Imagines sitting across a table from her, clinking their bottles together, trading barbs and anecdotes until the early hours of the morning. It’s been a long time since he’s had a partner, a _real_ partner, and longer still since he’s had the pleasure of playing that old game of silver-tongued cat-and-mouse with a pretty girl.

He imagines her leg resting familiarly against his under the table. Walking her home at sunrise. In this version, he makes his way back to the office with a stupidly fond smile on his face.

There will be other nights, he figures.)

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your sudden aversion to getting some shut-eye, now, would it?”

When he says that, her face falls. The strain is laid bare on her face, her lips pressed together in an unhappy line.

“Come on,” he says, putting an arm around her. “Let’s get you home.”

Once they are inside the home plate, he leads her upstairs to the bed. (It’s not something he would do, usually – it feels presumptuous, an intrusion on her privacy – but it seems like the only other way he can get her to lie down and sleep, besides making sure of it himself, would be cuffing her to the bed.

Provocative image though that may be, it’s not the time for it now.)

She sits down on the bed, back to the metal headrest and legs out straight in front of her. He perches on the edge, by her knees.

“Now, you want to tell me what this is about?”

She looks down at her legs instead of looking at him.

“You and me,” she says. “We got a good thing going, don’t we?”

“I’ll say.”

She plays with the hem of her skirt.

“Guess I’m just… afraid.” She says it slowly, still not looking. “Last time things were going so well…”

It doesn’t take a detective to piece together the things she doesn’t say. It might have been 200 hundred years for the rest of the world, but for her, it’s been a matter of months. Not so long ago, she closed her eyes, and woke up to a whole new world – the wreck of her old one.

He can imagine, before now, she might have hoped to fall asleep and wake up to another reality, to see this one torn to shreds and burnt. Now, though – now she has laid down some roots, made a place to call home…

“I’m afraid it’s all going to disappear,” she finishes, quietly.

He nods to himself, taking it in.

“Well, how about this,” he says, after a pause. “You sleep, and I’ll stay and keep watch. Make sure there’s none of this disappearing lark going on.”

She looks up at him, lips parted in surprise. “You don’t… you don’t have to do that.”

He just shrugs, his mind already set on it. “It’s not like I need sleep anyway.”

“Don’t you have things to do? I don’t want to keep you…”

“You got a desk, right?” (It’s a rhetorical question – the desk is right behind him, on the upper level. He gestures to it as he speaks.) “I’ll go through old case notes. Wrap up a few things. See if there’s anything I missed.”

She chews her lip, not yet wholly convinced. There’s guilt in those big doe eyes – he can see the way she is trapped between what she thinks is right and what she wants.

(There’s something about self-sacrifice, when it comes to her, that he fears rather than admires.)

“I’d only be disturbing Ellie, back at the office,” he finishes. (Again, not untrue.)

“So what do you say, partner?”

She is looking at him, and her face is red and blotchy, tearful without the tears. She smiles a crumpled smile. “Thank you, Nick.”

Then she leans forward, and – quick as anything – plants a kiss on his cheek.

Nick stands, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it.” He keeps his head low, angled so the brim of his hat covers his face. (If he was human, he might have blushed.

If he was human, this wouldn’t be a problem at all.)

Her eyes follow him as he ascends the stairs, takes his seat at the desk. (He can sense them, even if he makes a show of being oblivious to it.)

“You make kindness look so easy,” she says, at last.

He tips his hat to her. “You make it easy, doll.”

**IV.**

She wakes up bleary-eyed, rubbing her face as though massaging some feeling into it. (He doesn’t remember much of before the war, if _remember_ is even the right word, but he does know this – humans are soft and grumbly in the mornings, and it’s endearing thing to see.

It suits her.

He tries not to steal too much of this view.)

“What time is it?” she asks, blearily.

“Just past six thirty,” he answers, busying himself sorting the notes on the desk. “You can go back to sleep, if you fancy another forty winks.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m up now.”

Half-asleep, she pulls herself out of bed, pads across the landing and up the stairs.

“I made use of your noticeboard,” he says, as she makes her way up to him. “Hope you don’t mind.”

She looks over it as she passes, though he can tell, in her half-awake state, she isn’t really taking any of it in.

She hums her assent, a little absently. “Make yourself at home.”

(It’s rare to hear the phrase without a trace of sarcasm.

He likes it.

He likes that she leaves things at the office, that she clutters his life.)

She leans on the desk, over his shoulder, peering at the scattered notes.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Best I’ve got in a long time,” she says. And then his hat is coming off his head, and her other hand snakes around from his nape to his jaw, and she presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Nicky.”

He tells the truth. “My pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr @sarahgotbored :)


End file.
